Embers
by MsCongeniality
Summary: A collection of drabbles and other short one-shots starring various WHR characters. Mostly inspired by themes at the WHR(underscore)drabbles community on livejournal.
1. Nightmare

It started as it always did, quietly enough with him at his computer working.

It ended as it always did, with him on the floor with a gun to the back of his head and shouts ringing in his ears.

This time, it was different.

This time, he knew the dark face behind the gun.

A hand gripped his shoulder and Michael woke with a start, looking once again into Amon's stoic face with wide-eyed fear.

Just as he had a moment before.


	2. Closed Systems

It was so tempting, and so easy–almost like he'd been invited.

The rush, the thrill of discovery was like nothing he'd ever known. No game, no sim had ever given him anything close. This was real, these weren't just scripted challenges, they were walls designed to keep _him_ out. Barriers he circumvented with ease, despite a lack of experience. He left his mark and slipped out of the system, erasing his tracks as he went.

When it was done Michael he sat in his room, bathed in the glow of the monitor and a sense of accomplishment.

He couldn't wait to try it again.

_A/N: Written for Challenge #1 – First Time at the WHR Drabbles community on livejournal._


	3. Crossroads

Amon stood in the remains of Touko's apartment, he stood at a crossroads. It had always been simple, cut and dried. He'd given his life, every part of himself, to the hunt.

But now, he doubted.

He'd failed in a mission and an easy mission at that. He'd had Robin in his sights and missed the fatal spot. His failure gave her warning, and he did nothing but watch while she came to terms with it.

He'd had a chance to end it after the botched attack on the apartment, but instead he brought her to safety. And now, letter in hand, he stood at a crossroads.

_A/N: Written for Challenge #1 – First Time at the WHR Drabbles community on livejournal._


	4. Robin

She was born of hope.

Hope and...something else.

It was her father's persistence, no his BELIEF in what needed to be done that meant she existed at all. Toudou had felt strongly about his project, about providing a FUTURE for the witches he and his love had previously worked to relegate to dust. The hollows under his eyes, and the strength of his voice on that tape as he bequeathed his precious creation said as much.

She was born of hope, but more than that, she was born of faith.

_A/N: Written for Challenge #2 – Faith at the WHR Drabbles community on livejournal._

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	5. Whiskey and Sympathy

Sometimes the sympathetic pain was harder to bear than her own. At least with her own pain, there was a clear cause and effect – she knew what was wrong and why; how bad it was going to hurt and for how long. The pain she scryed was less…acute but more…insidious. It was a phantom at the edge of her senses with no cause, a tug at her heart without a name or a face.

Those were the nights Karasuma relented, the nights she loosened her collar and allowed Master to pour her another glass of anesthetic.

_A/N: Written for Challenge #3 – Pain at the WHR Drabbles community on livejournal._


	6. Age is Relative

Some days, Nagira just felt old.

Most of the time he lived his life to the fullest, approaching each day, each trial life dealt, with a flip comment and a sardonic grin. But more and more often, there were mornings he woke up feeling old. It could be aching muscles from a chase, the aftermath of late night stakeouts, or just plain overindulgence. Things that wouldn't have bothered him five years ago now left him wrung out and unwilling to face life outside the confines of his bed.

Today was going to be one of those days.

It was the morning after a particularly long night and before an especially long trial he'd been unable to plead his client out of. He rolled over, and before he'd gathered the will to open his eyes, he was feeling around on the nightstand for his pack of cigarettes.

A light chuckle pierced his half-woken haze and he felt a soft hand under his as the pack was placed within his flailing range of movement. Ever the opportunist, he took the hand rather than the cigarettes and, opening his other arm as an invitation, pulled the spirited blond closer.

Then again, maybe he didn't feel so old after all.


	7. Redemption

Witches are dangerous and must be hunted, that was never in question.

For many years, I believed that for the safety of those around them, witches must be put to death. Then, later, I came to believe that we could incarcerate them. It was humane, it was for their own good.

The criteria for hunts grew broader and like the Reverend Niemoller, I said nothing.

No person; god or witch, seed or human, deserved to be an experiment.

I take another sip of the whiskey and my gaze moves across the dim shapes in the darkened room to rest on the sleep tousled blond head of the girl I watch and protect. Here, perhaps is my opportunity, my redemption.

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**A/N:** Written for WHR(underscore)Drabbles on LiveJournal. I reference a poem by the Reverend Niemoller, due to site policies all other references and information regarding that poem will be available on my author board. Please see my profile for a link, thank you.


	8. Truth

Amon sat back in the seat, taking a moment to compose his thoughts before going upstairs to the inevitable debrief. He'd completed the hunt an hour ago and he knew Administrator Zaizen was waiting, but he couldn't rush himself, not now.

Completed the hunt an hour ago.

Such normal, even comforting words under normal circumstances but this was not a standard hunt. This was Solomon at its worst, internal regulation of the enemies within.

As unsure as he'd been when given the orders, as unsettled as he'd been by the evidence against her, he saw the truth of it at the last, reflected in her eyes as she faced his gun.

Resignation and...relief.

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_**A/N:** Written for WHR(underscore)Drabbles on LiveJournal. Linked drabble, with 'Evaluation.'_


	9. Evaluation

Amon stood at parade rest, eyes fixed on empty air as he gave his report. His tone was clear, words concise, dispassionate. Any traces of emotion that might have been present, erased, though whether it was before the hunt itself or before the accounting, Zaizen didn't know.

Truly, the details of this hunt were unimportant--they weren't being recorded anyway. No, what mattered was the hunter, his efficiency, his loyalty and his trust in his assignments as given.

Zaizen affected a stern glare and asked another irrelevant question, gauging the hunter's response by tone and body posture.

'Yes,' he thought. 'This one has become a useful tool.'

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A/N:** Linked drabble, with 'Truth.' _


	10. Family

Nagira wanted to talk, but Robin insisted on changing her clothes first, she'd been deeply shaken and needed a moment alone. She pulled the pilgrim's dress on and paused, rubbing at her eyes with the back of a sleeve. Tilting her head back, she looked up at the moon shining through the skylight and tried to work through her thoughts.

Those people--they were there and then they were gone, taken like their daughter. The whole thing left her numb inside. These witches were...normal. Contrary to everything she had ever even thought to believe, they were just people with ordinary lives. They didn't act in depraved ways and weren't dangerous to the humans around them. To the people just like them.

They were normal. They were ordinary, and they had families who loved them. Families who would miss them when they were gone.

They were...entirely unlike her.

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**A/N:** Written for WHR(underscore)Drabbles on LiveJournal.


	11. Craft

Craft.

It was a simple word, innocuous on its own and easy to objectify in others. In himself, though, the reaction became more...visceral. The very idea that such a thing could be within him, hiding dormant in his traitorous blood--it was abhorrent, sickening. If he could bleed himself dry and purge the demons within him, he would--without question. But the reality wasn't so simple. Instead, he sought absolution for his original sin.

One bullet at a time.

_A/N: One of my few attempts at writing Amon. Done for the 'craft' challenge on LJ._


	12. Fugitive

Without the chill in the air, Doujima probably never would have noticed them. Hair, eyes and clothes were all nondescript, blending perfectly among the sightseers. But rain had started to fall, and that brought the unforgettable silhouette of a man's trench coat.

She watched as they made their way towards her. If you knew what to look for, it was easy to tell they were constantly alert. A threat Doujima knew didn't exist, not from Solomon anyway.

She considered stopping them and they passed, close enough for her to reach out and grab his sleeve, but she didn't speak. Doujima realized she couldn't, that wasn't the role she was meant to play. She had learned the hard way, doing anything but her job simply meant running away from herself.


	13. Dangerous Beauty

Michaelwas doing it more and more often, marathon sessions that saw him online and poring through code for hours, sometimes days, on end. As he looked for that one weakness; worked towards that one moment when he made his 'live' attempt.

Each time he did it, the rush was the same – that rush and elation as the adrenaline surged through him. And now, he'd found a new mark, an organization with security like he'd never seen. It was beautiful, impregnable.

How could he resist?

_A/N: Can be considered a continuation of my drabble 'Closed Systems'. Originally posted at WHR(underscore)Drabbles on LJ._


	14. Muddying the Waters

On its face it had been straightforward. Robin was dangerous now, she needed to be hunted. Somehow when he started pursuing her, pursuing her past, it all became much murkier. It was clear that she was somehow tied to Zaizen's past through Toudou and it was just as clear that her powers had taken a terrifying turn.

Why, then was he still hesitating? Why did each new piece of evidence seem to muddy the waters still further?

The only thing he could see with any clarity was that he was going to have to face her, it was the only way he'd know the truth. It wasn't what he'd set out to do, but it was, or would be, the inevitable conclusion.


	15. At the Glass

Amon stood at the glass, watching. He was silent for some time, focused on the rise and fall of her chest, the measured beats of the machines that monitored and sustained her.

He'd known, even without the bruises to remind him, that he was entirely to blame for this. It was his inaction, his indecision that brought the Hunt to her doorstep and reduced this beautiful, vibrant woman to a shell.

He'd thought to avoid this, to protect her and had said his goodbyes. Now he was back with apologies, and the problem at the root of it all still remained. Saving Robin, bringing her to Raven's Flat, simply put the STN-J in direct opposition to Headquarters.

Amon stood at the glass, watching then he gave his apology and turned away. The battle was coming and he had a decision to make.


	16. Descent

Kate felt overwhelmed her thoughts, an emotional whirlwind of sound and color. So many and in such conflict, they couldn't all be real. The one thing she _believed_ was the paranoia. The danger was real, her feelings valid and she clung to that.

Her paranoia might just keep her alive.

There was no forgiveness for her kind, and in her madness she was committing the greatest sin of all. They had noticed, they couldn't _help_ but notice—it was their job after all. She gave herself one slim chance, she knew the workings of Solomon. She could betray the only beliefs she'd ever had and sell her soul, herself, in an attempt to gain sanity and protection.

But it wouldn't work.

The end would come. **He** would come, and with him would come not hell, but silence and freedom. No pale horse, nothing but black and grey and the faint glow of green.


	17. 23 December

Robin sat next to Amon's improvised bed on the floor of their tiny rented room. She hugged her knees more tightly to her chest and looked at the man sleeping just inches away. Some people seemed softer in sleep, younger, but not Amon. He looked less wary, but the hard planes of his face were unchanging.

Under her watchful eye, he shifted slightly, almost imperceptibly. Then, suddenly his eyes were open and he was looking up at her, fully alert. He swallowed hard, and in a sleep-roughened voice he said, "You want something."

Robin started slightly, answering in a quiet, almost guilty tone. "I...no..."

Amon closed his eyes again briefly, then turned his head slightly to see her better. "You're hovering," he said. "You only get this close when you want something, but are afraid to ask. What is it?"

"No Amon, I..." she paused, exhaling deeply. Then, sitting up a bit straighter, she continued in a firmer tone. "Can we find a church to go to for mass tomorrow night?"

He frowned slightly in response, leveraging himself up on to one elbow and turning to face her. "I've been expecting this question. I don't want to keep you from something so important to you, but you have to weigh that against the dangers involved."

"Yes," she said quietly, hunching back in on herself again. "But they are my trials to bear for my faith."

"So," he said in a flat tone. "You're no longer Eve, but one of the martyrs?"

"No" she said softly. "It's not that, but is faith really true if you let your worldly concerns, even personal danger, get in the way?"

"I suppose not," he replied, smiling lightly. "We'll find you a church, then. Merry Christmas, Robin."

She smiled broadly in response. "Merry Christmas, Amon."


	18. 1 January

It wasn't the first New Year's Eve that Amon had spent outside of Japan and while he wasn't particularly given to the trappings of ritual, it still felt strange. The church bells at midnight just sounded wrong, and they certainly didn't go on long enough. Then there was the pasta dinner Robin made when he had commented on the lack of soba. He appreciated the gesture but the meal tasted flat, the thin western noodles somehow traitorous.

He took another sip from the chill glass, at least the sake was right. With a guilty wince, he turned his head slightly to glance at Robin, asleep in the bed. She'd simply been trying to do something nice for him, to repay him for Christmas Eve, and he couldn't even be properly appreciative. He exhaled deeply, mentally adding that to the list of shortcomings and regrets he would have to leave behind now that he was starting fresh.

Amon drained the last of the sake in his glass and looked out the uncharacteristically open blinds at the brightening of false dawn. Suddenly sure of what he needed to do, he rose silently and padded his way across the small room to the bed. Robin woke to his touch, bleary eyed and confused. "Come on," he said in a flat tone that belied his earlier confusion. "We're going to go celebrate the dawn of a new year."


	19. Careful Illusions

Miho studied her reflection in the mirror and frowned in frank assessment. Touching her face lightly, she ran through a mental list of flaws—eyes a little too small, chin a little too strong and hair that could use the attention of her salon. Her frown turned slightly sour, maybe she was being too harsh, but she preferred to think of herself as truthful—at least in this respect.

There were so many lies she told herself throughout the day; little ones that came too easily and, of course, the big ones that let her function enough to do her job. Without those carefully maintained illusions, without the belief that their actions did some good, she'd have to give voice to the conscience that threatened to overrule her intellect.

No, she thought shaking her head slightly and forcibly relaxing her frown into a more neutral expression. It's better to call a spade a spade. There are only so many lies you can tell yourself, even when honesty hurts.


	20. The Reality of the Situation

Michael liked to think of himself as a realist. He wasn't as bad as some of the coders he knew who seemed to want to boil everything down to absolutes, but, almost certainly, a realist. To his mind, there was very little way to sugarcoat the situation he found himself in.

Instead, he simply tried to make the best of it. He rationalized that even when he'd _had_ his freedom, most of his time was spent bathed in the light of his computer monitor and not in the light of the sun. But still, there were things he missed. There were things he knew he should be doing, experiencing as part of a 'normal' life and as much as he liked Japan, it was still…well, foreign. He was sheltered from a lot inside Raven's Flat, but there was very much a feel of the 'other' about some of the simplest of things.

Even so, he, for the most part, thought that he had adapted well. He hadn't noticeably screwed up his etiquette or done anything to elicit a confused stare from one of his coworkers in quite a while. He even thought he was coping with it, with the strain of captivity in a strange place. Then one day he realized he wasn't thinking in English anymore, and the walls closed in a little tighter.


	21. Amber Reflections

It was funny, Doujima reflected as she took a sip of her sake later that night. Funny what could trigger a memory, even of something you'd thought buried or forgotten.

She'd been down in the Village, stopping for a well-deserved cup of java before heading back uptown when a piece of her past walked in the door. There shouldn't have been anything memorable about him. He was just your prototypical urban geek, all baggy cargos and sleek laptop. Except, there was something about the way he carried himself, slouching over to a quiet table in the corner—just another kid, another nerd from Cooper Union. Except that when she saw him, she felt herself transported back across years, and thousands of miles to a workspace crammed full of equipment. A place where she watched the light from a screen reflected in amber lenses.

She'd felt a cold chill come over her then, one she hadn't been able to shake all day and that she was trying to push away now with the heated wine. Not guilt, not regret, but a sort of emptiness that only came when she thought about the role she'd had to play in that place and time.

She took another sip, and pushed away the memories of amber.


	22. Judge Not

Amon didn't wait for the barrier of flames to die down, aiming despite the smoke and distortion from the heat. Before he could fire, a hand came down over his wrist and he found it held in an iron grip. He turned to the stranger they'd reluctantly accepted as an ally, silently demanding explanation.

"Guns are never a solution."

"You don't understand," Amon growled. "Left to its own devices, a witch will—"

"Will what?" the stranger replied mildly. This man, this so-called Doctor, had seemed easy to dismiss, with his ridiculous velvet coat and unsettling manner. But even in the face of all they'd seen his expression was unruffled, his voice calm, and his grasp remained firm.

"A witch will go insane? I beg to differ. I've seen many of what you would call witches and while there is, perhaps, a greater incidence of madness within the population, it is by no means one hundred percent."

"Perhaps not, but—"

"But nothing! You'd act as judge and executioner without so much as evidence of wrongdoing." The Doctor's eyes turned cold and Amon could see his gaze shift slightly and focus over his shoulder to where Robin stood when he spoke again, it was in a much quieter tone, pitched only so Amon could hear.

"How terribly hypocritical of you."

_A/N: Crossover with Doctor Who, the eighth Doctor._


	23. Moments to Hours

Yurika removed her earpiece and clicked the seat back a few notches. For some reason, she found it easier to think staring at the ceiling than looking out the too bright windows around her.

Making that call was easily the hardest thing she'd done since the start of this mission. Sometimes all the training, all the conditioning could not keep an agent from sympathizing with the target of an investigation. She knew her frustration showed on her face, and she was sure it had come through in her voice as well. With luck, they'd just put it down to peevishness or the research not going her way.

It wouldn't do, after all, for them to be tipped off before the attack.

She bit her lower lip, worrying at it in an uncharacteristic way. All the assurances she'd had could mean nothing. There was no way to know if she was being lied to as well. Besides, in an operation like this one, anything could go wrong. Someone could decide to play hero—that'd be right up Sakaki's alley. Or else something unforeseen, like the Chief having a heart attack from the shock. Sure he got on her case and they fought, but that was the role she was there to play. For all his bluster, he really did want to do right by the organization. What if he, what if any of them, took a bad hit in the crossfire?

With a sigh, she released the catch and brought her seat back to a sitting position. A busy street in the heart of town wasn't the best place to sit, especially with her nerves so on edge. Surely there was a café or something where she could wait for the all clear and the curtain to rise on her next act.

She turned the motor over and caught a glimpse of the look on her face in the rear view mirror as she checked traffic. Worry was etched into her features which she determinedly eased, forcing herself to look more natural.

She'd thought the call was going to be the hardest part. She'd been wrong, it was the waiting.


	24. Thursday's Child

Maria gave an involuntary wince. The treatments weren't painful, but they were uncomfortable and more than a little bit daunting. Probably no more so than any other high risk pregnancy, but the stakes here were so much greater—it was hard not to let some of that anxiety affect her. This was her last act, the most important thing she'd done with her short life.

This was her defiance.

Papa didn't know yet, he didn't seem to suspect that the treatments she received were anything beyond a genetic 'fix' for the disease that was crippling her. The fiction had to be maintained as long as possible, or else the child would have no chance. Her hope would die before even getting a chance to live, and the seed of the rebellion she and Hiroshi dreamed of planting would be lost forever.

No, it was hard not to be affected by what she was doing. But more than that, she harbored secret dreams. Beyond all that they planned for this child and despite the burden they expected her to bear, Maria prayed that her daughter might grow up happy.


	25. Chameleon

At first, they hadn't stopped to think, they'd just run. They'd picked up their cached supplies and prepared identities, and put as much distance between themselves and Tokyo as they could manage. They ran for days. At Amon's insistence, they went without sleep and food. He allowed no comforts until he was sure that they were, if not safe, then at least not in immediate danger of detection.

Finally they stopped. Once he was able to look beyond the moment, it became clear that the first thing they needed to do was change. Ridding themselves of Robin's stark, almost Victorian dress and his own stylized jacket and vest had been easy enough, but the spectre of Solomon loomed large and its reach extended farther than he wanted to consider. What was needed was something deeper, more fundamental. They would need to learn how to think, act, and react differently. They could not simply pose as other people, they must each _become_ someone new and unexpected.

He looked to the slip of a girl next to him. Her close-cropped hair only served to emphasize her delicate features, making her look even younger than her sixteen years. Her age was an asset, making her malleable, adaptable. But beneath it all, there was a core of steel and a soul that had probably never truly been young. They'd manage in these new identities, and she'd thrive.

The realization made him pause. In that instant, Amon wasn't at all certain whether he should embrace that possibility or be terrified by it.

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